“Patrick!”

Her voice pierced through the roaring air, all distorted by the helmet covering her precious little head—so much so, I almost miss the squeal because when you’re going this fucking fast on a motorcycle, the air doesn’t just zip past you, it slam into you like you're driving through an invisible wall.

The handlebars vibrate under my palms as we speed down the deserted open stretch between Ballylaggin and Glantee. With just the overhead street posts illuminating the roads and the moon and stars to keep us company, we were completely alone.

The asphalt rushes beneath us, a blur of black and silver streaks getting caught in the glare of the headlights. In the distance, the faint outlines of hills sit up like snoring giants, and the air smells of damp earth and unshed rain.

“Yeah, Baby?” I call back, and her arms tighten around my waist, holding on for dear life.

The speedometer needle is hovering right at 54 km/h, and a part of me is tempted to push the bike even further, but my common sense, which the devil on my shoulder tried to get rid of ages ago, has me easing off the throttle a tad.

Speaking of the devil on my shoulder, he's the wee bastard who got me into this situation in the first bloody place. I may or may not have kinda kidnapped my gorgeous girlfriend and taken her cruising on my Suzuki GSX-R750 in the dead of night. The Gixxer was a side passion project I saved up for by slaving away at my parents’ farm all summer.

Ma hated it, she said that it was begging for the devil to come get me and that I was a skull tattoo away from making it onto Santa's (and Jesus’) naughty list.

Love my mother I may, but I didn't listen to a word of her hysterics just like I didn't when I bought Mr Donnally’s Volkswagen Golf GTI from him for half the price for agreeing to play at his wedding for free (And keeping his affair a secret)